Heart and Sole
by justonemore
Summary: It sort of begins with the shoes. B/A Casefile.
1. Chapter 1

Detective Alexandra Eames surveyed the dead body

Detective Alexandra Eames surveyed the dead body. It was a man, early 40's, dressed in black tie. He still had his wallet, his watch, and his cuff links. What was missing from the scene was her partner. He had been there a minute before, looking over the deceased while she had interviewed the traumatized arbitrageur who had found the body on his way to work.

"Have you seen my partner," she asked the uniform holding back a few stray gawkers.

"The big guy? I saw him go down the block and turn right." A few minutes later, Goren returned, carrying a pair of women's shoes.

"They match your outfit, but I don't think they're practical for everyday wear," she said. Goren smiled sheepishly.

"I found these on top of a garbage can around the corner. I thought it was odd."

"I see shoes abandoned all of the time here in the city." Goren nodded.

"True, but sneakers over a phone wire, shoes with impractically high heels or a heel that broke. These, uh…"

"Open toed slingbacks"

"Yeah, open-toed slingbacks, are elegant, but you can walk in them. I mean, I couldn't, but you could. High quality stitching. Are they from a well-known designer?"

"No, those guys don't make shoes with the expectation that people will actually walk in them. These are from a well-known firm, the kind of thing Ms. Wall Street or Mrs. Old Money wears out on the town."

"A little too nice to be leaving on top of the public garbage can," suggested Goren

"Are you keeping them, or are they related to the case? The decedent, Carl Roth, by the way, is strictly a loafers man.

"Loafers with tassels."

"You may want to hide the disdain in your voice when we run this by Ross."

"It's not a judgment, but its true, tassels are usually for guys who don't think too much about their shoes, so they just wear what their fathers wore. He's wearing black tie, but it's not something he did often or by choice. " Eames didn't respond, instead gingerly opening the wallet, and began removing items one by one.

"Well, he's one of us, the riff raff. He has a subway Metrocard, and here's the not so lucrative profession. He's an archivist at the Metropolitan Museum. Head archivist."

"They had their benefit last night, didn't they," Goren asked. "They just got that Isaac Newton manuscript. A major coup like that, he would have been expected to be on hand to entertain the donors with useful facts. He would also have been expected to bring a date."

"Okay, I'll give you all of that, but you still haven't connected the shoes".

They walked back to the car, Goren carrying the now-bagged shoes like a boy who'd won a goldfish at the county fair. Back at 1 PP, things fell into place. Carl Roth's immediate superior, the assistant curator, confirmed that Roth had been at the benefit, and the curator could supply them with a list of people who had been there.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Goren regarded the suits of armor almost lovingly. Eames let him stare for a few minutes.

"Bobby," she said.

"Sorry, I've just always loved this room."

"You, my brothers, my nephew…"

"The historical distance makes the bloodletting less scary and more…cool."

"We have an assistant curator to grill."

Albert Gow was dressed exactly as you would expect a curator to be dressed, with a bowtie that he had tied himself, but he was far more affable than pedantic.

"It's a true tragedy. I don't know how we'll replace him, his research, his professionalism. His poor family. He had a widowed mother. I don't think he supported her financially, but I had the impression that he was her emotional mainstay." Eames stole a glance at Goren, who was looking uncomfortably at the floor for a moment. He shook his head, recovering.

"Carl was at the benefit last night?"

"Oh yes, the donors really like to meet the guys in the trenches. Not that he was as glib as they are. He's a scholar, and of course, we're all truly nerdy, but I think the donors like that lack of polish. It gives us an air of authenticity." Eames could not imagine that Albert Gow had ever been a nerd. She suspected that in middle school, he had always won the band candy sales contest. If indeed, he had offered her an overpriced Krackle bar at that very instant, she would have rewarded his self-deprecating charm with the cash. Goren interjected gently,

"And he brought a date?"

"Yes, she was definitely a bit more in her element than Carl. Her clothing hit just the right note, and she seemed to know how to connect gently, you know, friendly, but not overly familiar."

"His girlfriend, maybe?"

"I'm not sure they had reached that stage yet. I think Carl said they were neighbors."

"I'm sure you remember her name," said Eames.

"Rebecca, uh, something to do with birthstones…Garnet!"

"And she lives in his building?" Eames continued.

"I think so."

Gow was unaware of any personal problems Carl had had, and there was no one he could think of who had a bad relationship with Carl. As they walked down the front steps, Eames perused the list of attendees.

"A lot of heavy hitters on this list. We'll have to tread lightly."

"We'll also have to see his mother, " said Goren quietly. Eames nodded.

"Victim services did the notification this morning."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Goren wandered around Carl Roth's apartment, picking up an item here, scrutinizing a book there. He was opening the cupboards in the kitchen when Eames returned.

"How's the canvas?" She shook her head.

"They're only about halfway through, but it's not hopeful so far." Eames and Goren had headed to Roth's building, in search of the mysterious Rebecca Garnet, who might have been the last person to see Roth alive, or who might also be a victim, but there had been no listing for Rebecca Garnet on the building's mailboxes. The super knew at least five single women in the right age range, all of whom, he said, were "premium grade hotness". Eames wasn't sure what the super's standards were for hotness, although judging from the posters on the inside of his door, he seemed solidly in favor of airbrushed brunettes.

Goren looked as if he were about to say something. Eames smiled,

"And no, I don't think we have probable cause to search all of their apartments to discern their taste for open-toed slingbacks. "

Goren gestured to the shelves.

"His taste in books was scholarly, at lot of books, mostly on the Enlightenment, with detailed footnotes, citing primary sources. There are professional journals here, too. His interests, professionally, had depth." Goren crossed to the kitchenette. "But here, in the cupboards, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, spaghetti, and just one or two jars of spices – Italian seasoning and Old Bay. And he's a Metropolitan Museum employee with nothing on his walls."

"They would have tossed him out of the scruffy Bohemian academic club if they had known"

"He's got all of this deep meaning, flavor, in his work life, but nothing at home, just a big void."

"That maybe Rebecca Garnet meant to fill."

Eames looked up, noting that Goren was staring at a picture of Roth and an older woman. Both Roths were smiling.

"I'm starting to get a sense of him."

"Please sit down, Detectives." Mrs. Roth was a short woman with perhaps a few extra pounds. In her white sweater, floral blouse, and cotton pants, she was definitely someone's mother. She smiled pleasantly at the detectives, but there was something hollow about her expression. People don't expect their children to die first, thought Eames, ruefully.

Bobby sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Roth, but at a respectful distance. He looked around at her home. It was small, but neat, with landscape prints (Eames will like those, he thought) and a lot of potted plants.

"We're very sorry about Carl, Mrs. Roth," said Goren. Eames was always grateful when he took the lead with grieving parents. "Had he been worried about anything lately?"

"I don't think so. I thought that he was mugged. Do you think this was deliberate?" Eames stepped in; this wasn't a woman who missed things.

"We're still in the early stages of the investigation, Mrs. Roth. We just have to gather as much information as possible."

"Well, Carl didn't say that anything was bothering him. He did seem a little preoccupied. He didn't really say why. He was always a bit closed about his private life, and he was always so studious as a boy, not one of the popular ones. I tried to be as supportive as I could of his interests, but I also tried to have him invite his friends over, so that he could connect. I think, though, that his relationships with people drained him a little"

Goren continued, "So he didn't have a girlfriend?"

"Not that I know of. I had always hoped he'd find someone who could really appreciate him. Now I wish he had. If he was only to be given a few years, why shouldn't they have been good ones."

"Carl deserved better."

"He did. He was truly a fine son, never any trouble, even as a teenager. He took me to dinner once a week, and whenever there was a plumbing issue or something with the house, he always came as soon as he could. I always felt very lucky to have him."

Eames looked over at Goren. He had a kind of faraway look in his eyes. She wondered if it was like this for him every time. Maybe it was. You'd think, though, that after all of those years, he might have lowered his expectations, the way she had with those guys she had dated over the last few years.

Goren shook his head slightly and looked intently at Mrs. Roth. Here was a woman who had loved her son, accepted him, and had probably found a way to let him know that. He couldn't help the wistful feelings that he got whenever he met these functional, doting parents, people whose expectations for their children were always met because they were so reasonable. He wondered what such feelings said about him. The professional psychology literature on children from abusive or dysfunctional homes was pretty clear. The ones who made it out, made something of themselves, didn't repeat the patterns, they were generally able to detach, to see the parents' random acts of violence for what they were: a sickness. The kids who continued to seek their parents' approval, they were the ones who repeated the patterns, who ended up in jail. So had he detached? Enough to go into the army, to find another way of life besides the endless cycling of each of his family members' pathologies, to put his mother in a place where they understood her better than he did. But still, hadn't he continued to try to win their approval?

Mrs. Roth smiled at him, looking back and forth from him to Eames with a flustered expression.

"Detectives, I thought… Carl…in the park…the other officers made it sound like a robbery or a random attack. If it wasn't, was Carl…had he gotten himself…was he mixed up in something…inappropriate?

Eames lowered her eyes. Mrs. Roth had this image of the perfect son. She had already lost the son, and it would be almost too much to lose that image too. The memories of the good times, Eames knew, were the things you cling to in the dark times. She cleared her throat.

"I wouldn't worry too much just yet, Mrs. Roth. There are a lot of reasons why a person can be in the in the wrong place at the wrong time."

As they walked out, he said

"That was good, what you said to Mrs Roth."

"Great, if it turns out to be true. And our only lead apparently doesn't exist."

"Well, if we get a description from Albert Gow, maybe we can find her at the building ourselves."

"Something tells me our curator is going to do very well with a sketch artist."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Albert Gow's facility with description proved to be a substantial asset. Eames had never seen Lisa, the sketch artist, behave so, well, coquettishly. Walking by their little corner she was overhearing phrases like "your style reminds me of Delacroix. Really the best of the Romantics…" and "her nose was a bit rounder, like that John Singer Sargent of…" What they got was a sketch among sketches. Where that got them, however, was less apparent.

"Sure, I see her around," said the super, "but she's not one of our hotties, not a resident, I mean. I always thought she was, you know, a GUEST of one of our guys. We got some real players here."

"Do you know which one was playing her?" asked Eames.

"Nope. Why, honey, you looking to trade up?" He winked a gray eye at Eames, but when he saw her stony expression, he remembered that the back hallway needed some wax and fled.

As they walked back to the car, Goren said,

"Who is in a building all of the time, but the super doesn't think they live there?"

"An illegal subletter, which would explain why Roth introduced her as a neighbor, but her name isn't on the mailbox. So how do we find her, one hundred units in the building. We could recanvas, but…"

"If she was involved, she's long gone. Gow said she seemed in her element at the benefit. Maybe she gave some of the donors more details, let something slip."

"Or maybe she's buried somewhere, courtesy of whoever killed Roth."

"Those shoes, I think she left them as an act of volition. They were placed on the can neatly, not flung there as an act of desperation."

Eames didn't try to disguise her eye roll. Unfortunately, when they briefed Ross, neither did he.

"This is all you have? A sketch and a fake name, or at least a fake lease. We have no idea how to find this woman. The heat I'm getting is thermonuclear on this."

"Are the museum folks calling the Chief?" asked Eames.

"No, that's not how old money works. They call the Mayor, or rather, they have their people call the Mayor, and he calls the Chief, which frankly makes it worse, since the Chief can't actually ignore the Mayor. That building is our only link to that woman. You two are going to sit on it. Tonight."

"Captain, I really don't think she's coming back," objected Goren.

"For your sake, Detective, I hope that isn't true."

--

The car that they generally got for overnights was an old sedan. It was old enough that it had plenty of leg room and bench seats, but not so old that they stood out in any way. Eames eyed the last drumstick from her Three Piece Value Meal disdainfully. It had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, but now she could actually hear her arteries hardening. Goren was trying to pull something constructive out of the evening by charting where lights went on after each tenant entered to eliminate apartments from their possibilities, but realistically, there were too many units. They could add that to their data from the initial canvas, but many people hadn't been home.

As 1:00 a.m. approached, few tenants went in and out. Goren turned to Eames. At times like these, he had noticed, they often had some of their best conversations.

"How's your nephew."

"A little too fearless. He fell out of his first tree last weekend."

"He didn't hurt himself too badly, did he?"

"Just a sprain. He was trying to get his friend Noah's ball down."

"He's a big hearted kid."

"He is. Sometimes, he reminds me of you."

"Of me?"

"Yeah, he gets this look on his face, the one you get when you've put all of the facts together, and now you have to take action, even if it's not so pleasant. It's not like resignation; it's more like…acceptance or maybe concern."

Goren was quiet for a minute.

"I haven't been so concerned about my own family."

"You tried to find Donny. You tried for months."

"But Frank…I've written him off," he said, but there was no regret in his voice.

"What else could you have done for him, Bobby, that you didn't do?" Goren was silent. Eames took a breath. He shouldn't, she thought, keep going down this same stretch of road in his head. "All of those people, Bobby, those cases we've closed, the crimes we've prevented…" He nodded.

"I know the job is worth doing." He smiled. Eames stifled a yawn. No matter how much coffee, thought Goren, there's a point where she just hits the wall. Not that he blamed her. She lasted longer than his partners in Narcotics generally had. Eames' eyes began to close. "If you want to sleep, I can keep watch." Eames smiled sleepily, leaning back against the head rest. Soon, she was out. Bobby studied his map of the building and shook his head. He looked at Eames. Slowly, her head was slipping off of the headrest. She ended up leaning against him. This happened often, often enough that Goren looked forward to stakeouts. He felt calmer, less fidgety when she was asleep on his shoulder. He kept his gaze on the building, but as she started to slip forward, he reached over and put an arm around her to steady her. Later, when she started to stir, he would let go, but for now, he just enjoyed the sensation of holding her, as he watched a building that no one entered.

At 3:00 a.m., Goren added one more spot to his chart as a twenty something left his apartment and came back with a box of a dozen donuts. Must be an analyst on Wall St. to afford these rents, plus pot, at his age, mused Goren. He could go terrorize the youth, but it wasn't really worth waking Eames. He felt an odd temptation to kiss the top of her head. He resisted it, feeling that somehow, that was a line he shouldn't cross, especially when she was asleep.

At 6: 30, Eames stirred. He removed his arm from her shoulders.

"Hey, " she said.

" ' Morning."

"Sorry to use you as a pillow. What time is…hey, who is that?" A woman with a tiny chihuahua on a leash entered the building. She emerged 20 minutes later with two more dogs on leashes."

"The shoes, they had dog hairs on them." Goren jumped out of the car, and went over to where the dog walker was disentangling the leashes of the two exuberant spaniels and the original Chihuahua. Cursing for having punted the CSU report on the shoes, Eames followed quickly, knowing that he needed a woman by his side to change from "Scary Big Guy" to "Helpful Stranger" in the eyes of the dog walker. Goren reached down and began holding collars and snapping and unsnapping leashes. "They're so cute. Are those the regular ones from this building?" Eames flashed her badge to lend an air of necessity to the question.

The dog walker, a young woman with green hair, a nose ring, and a quiet air of competence, looked back and forth between them and said,

"Well, Cuffy here, I only do him every once in a while. Got a call from his owner this morning. She said she was stuck out of town, and could I feed him and walk him." Goren pulled out the sketch.

"Is this her?"

"Yeah, I mean, I think so. I've only met her once. She sends me cashier's checks. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"We think she might have seen something," said Eames. "Do you have an apartment number?"

"3-D."

As they walked back to the car, Eames said,

"You're not even gloating about being right about the shoes. Even better, since the captain's orders yielded a lead, he'll be so triumphant, that he'll be off our backs the rest of the day."


	5. Chapter 5

Eames stepped out of Ross' office with her marching orders

Chapter 5

Eames stepped out of Ross' office with her marching orders. She detected a definite note of triumph in his voice, as she overheard him phoning ME Rogers to invite her to lunch. Eames had insisted that Goren go upstairs to get a few hours of sleep. She felt very rested, for some reason, despite having slept in an Oldsmobile. She also was a bit worried about getting their warrant. The dogwalker's statement clearly said that she had only seen the woman once. Eames was worried that she would have to do some serious flirting with their new DA, Stephen Streeter, in order to convince him that they had probable cause. For some reason, she didn't want Bobby to see that.

Three hours, and several versions of "I told my captain that if anyone could pull off this warrant, it's you, Mr. Streeter," later, Eames returned to 1 Police Plaza with a warrant in hand. Bobby looked much less tired, and he had changed into the fresh shirt he kept in his locker. A cop learns to keep a spare as a rookie, shortly after the first experience with a drunken conventioneer, widely regarded as a rite of passage. He smiled at her as she walked in, and handed her a cup of coffee.

"I've rounded up a crime scene team." Later, she decided his expression wasn't so much gleeful as chipper.

Apartment 3-D was tastefully furnished. Goren stood in the center of the living room, not sure what to think. Were these furnishings hers, or did they belong to N. Ferguson, the person on the lease on file with the building's management company. Was N. Ferguson an alias, or someone who had genuinely wanted to illegally sublet his or her apartment, winding up with "Rebecca Garnet" as a tenant? He noticed that the face in many of the photos matched the sketch, and he decided to concentrate on those. In all of the photos, she was smiling and laughing. He picked up the one that was on her bookshelf. A much younger version of the sketch was standing with a group of people on a bridge, with a river in the foreground.

"Eames. This picture, it was taken at Harvard University. They have a big boat race there every year, intercollegiate." Eames came out of the bedroom, not bothering to ask how Goren knew what Harvard looked like. She handed him another of the woman, now older, sitting on a sailboat. She was again in a group, although a man, about fifteen years older than she, had his hand on her arm.

"Albert said she was comfortable in that world. That picture was buried underneath her winter sweaters." She returned to the bedroom. Goren began picking through the desk. There were no bills, but there was a leather wallet with the initials RS and an embossed stamp that said Studio A. Ferruca, Umbria; an old fountain pen - like the kind Goren's grandfather used to write checks; two laminated subway maps; and piles of copies of cashiers' check receipts. Goren thumbed through them. A few were made out to the dogwalker. He bagged them for later scrutiny. A recycling bin underneath the desk had a copy of Vogue and the most recent Financial Times. Eames came out of the bedroom. "Okay, I've got a license for one Rebecca Stone, shoved in a pair of socks, and a class ring from Dartmouth College, stuck in a scarf. With the picture, that's a winter clothing trifecta"

"We've still got more questions than answers."

"Right, what's a well-heeled girl like her doing in a middle class place like this? Well, if this license is legit, it's a start."

Goren realized he was still holding the pictures. He slid them into his folder and followed Eames out.

Three hours later, Eames stretched in her chair. Her neck was sore from peering into her laptop screen, but she had a few answers, thanks to some judicious database searching. N. Ferguson had been found. The credit report on file with her landlord had yielded a Social Security number, which had yielded a license. Someone who was subletting was probably not in town, but Eames had wondered if a person who sublet illegally would have the same kind of loose disregard for the law in general, and sure enough, a quick database search indicated that Nicole Ferguson had received a speeding ticket in Poughkeepsie two weeks ago at 2:00 a.m..

"Vassar College," Goren had said. A quick call to the Vassar Housing Office, just before they closed, and a slightly desperate sounding Eames had asked for the room number of her "niece Nicole, since Pop Pop has taken a turn for the worse." A quick discussion with Nicole , who was anxious to stay on the good side of the law, since she was no longer on its right side, indicated that she was indeed subletting her "boss" apartment while attending a summer course at Vassar. She had arranged everything through , and had never even seen Rebecca Stone, who had called herself Rebecca Lapis. She had arranged for Rebecca to pick up the keys from Nicole's cousin Debbie. A call to Debbie revealed no new details about Rebecca , except that she had been nice, but distant, as if she were preoccupied with something.

The license had been legit. Rebecca Stone had an unblemished driving record, although there was no record that she owned a car. She had an address on the Upper East Side. Here Eames had felt stuck. With a person like this, the financials would likely paint the picture, but it was after 5, and the records wouldn't arrive until tomorrow. Goren suggested trying Rebecca Stone along with finance in the Lexis-Nexus database. Bingo. Rebecca Stone was named in a couple of small articles about investment banking houses, mostly things like "Parker-Braithwaite welcomes Rebecca Stone as new manager of foreign equity sales,".

"We can hit the firms tomorrow, when we get the financials, " said Eames. "But the apartment can't really wait, can it?" Goren shook his head. Eames took a breath, picked up the phone, and dialed Stephen Streeter's number.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Goren was subdued during their drive to Rebecca Stone's "real" apartment. Finally, as they neared her block, he cleared this throat and said,

"That was…uh…deft, the way you played Streeter. Did you have to do that to get the other warrant as well?" Mentally panicking, Eames put on her game face and said,

"I don't need to tell you that a little charm goes a long way with our friends in suits." She was hoping that he would remember his shenanigans with Judge Sabatini, Ron Carver, insert attorney's name here, and maybe he would just let it go. Besides, there really shouldn't be all of this angst surrounding her flirting with someone, should there?

Goren nodded.

The crime scene team had beaten them to the apartment, and no one was three, nor had anyone been there for a while. A layer of dust covered the antique bedroom furniture, and the more modern living room pieces. The doorman couldn't positively remember having seen her within the last 6 weeks, but this was the sort of building where the staff were expected to be discreet and uninquisitive. It wasn't that much of a disappointment, as they hadn't really expected much from the place she had abandoned. Goren did, however, upon arriving in the apartment, march straight back into the her closet. He emerged carrying two more pairs of open toed slingbacks, in navy and gray. It was as close to glee as she had seen him come recently.

They spent the next hour building up their knowledge of Rebecca Stone herself. Eames found the Dartmouth yearbook, while Goren rearranged the photos on the bookshelf, creating a sort of chronology. The man on the sailboat appeared in many of the post-college pictures. An older woman, who looked like Rebecca was featured in a few of the photographs, each a few years apart. He began rifling through her desk – stationery from the firms listed in those newspaper articles, tables clipped from Barron's, a couple of what looked like contracts in folders. He had them bag everything for Josh, the forensic accountant, and really, the busier Josh was, the happier everyone else was. He didn't do well with idle time to speculate.

Eames had moved on from the yearbook to a dayplanner.

"I should have this woman come organize my life. Gym, important meetings, dental appointments, dog grooming, birthday reminders, all color-coded. The entries end about two months ago. Just before that there's an entry 'C. dinner'." She flipped back through the previous pages. "There are a lot of entries with C here. Could be Roth."

"Or the man on the sailboat. There are a lot of pictures of her mother here, none with both parents."

"Sailboat man is too young to be her father, but not really in her age range either." Eames bagged the daytimer. "I think we really need to get some info from people who really knew her. Call it a day?" Goren nodded. It was after nine.

As they headed back downtown, Eames looked over at Goren. He seemed to be fading. They hadn't eaten since two. Maybe she should get some food into him.

"I could really use a bite. The diner could probably squeeze us in, if you bribe the maitre d'," she ventured. He smiled and nodded. Eames worried that he was still brooding over her earlier encounter with Streeter, but then she stopped herself. Why would he care about that, she wondered.

As they wearily leaned into a booth, Eames was buoyed by the sight of the familiar laminated menus, ketchup-stained though they were. The Forty-niner Diner was around the corner from 1PP. Eames had no idea where the name came from, since there were no other tributes to gold miners in the restaurant. About half of the time that a case dragged them out past nine or so, they ate here. Eames wondered if Goren identified the things on the menu as comfort food, the way she did. His tastes were a bit more sophisticated, and she wasn't sure what kind of comforts his childhood involved. He always seemed to relax when they ate there.

"Waffles, I think," she said. Here, Bobby usually interjected something about the origins of the waffle or a little known fact about maple syrup. Tonight, he just ordered a steak sandwich.

"You know, on the surface, she seemed to have everything."

"Rebecca? Everything money could buy."

"That's just it," he continued, "if her life was so good, how could she just walk out of it? There was something missing. I think if we find that, we find her."

After dinner, Eames insisted on driving him home. Ordinarily, she would have continued home, but her battery had other plans. They tried a jump start from Goren's car, but the battery was beyond hope. Goren paced around Eames' car.

"I don't think you should wait around for a tow. Why don't you…uh…stay. You can call Triple-A in the morning, and I can drive us in."

"Alright," said Eames, surprised at her own quick acquiescence.

"I can take the sofa," he said, holding the door of his apartment open for her.

"No you can't," she said, decisively. "I actually fit on your sofa." He held his hands up to indicate no further objections. She had that look on her face. Goren put a sheet and some blankets on the sofa. After rummaging in his drawers, he came up with an old shirt that had shrunk enough to fit Eames. He let her use the bathroom first. When she came out, he had changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants. She felt her heart skip a beat, less because he was attractive than that it had been quite some time since she had shared a scene of simple domesticity with someone. She looked up to find him staring at her.

"Goodnight, Eames. If you…uh…need anything, let me know."

"Goodnight, Bobby."

She woke up at 2:30, panicking slightly at being in unfamiliar surroundings. Then she remembered where she was. She saw a light coming from under Goren's bedroom door, and heard a dull thud. She knocked softly.

"Bobby?" She entered. Goren looked up from where he was lying on his side.

"Sorry. Did I wake you. I dropped my book."

"No, I just woke up. Probably the unfamiliar bed and all of that. Have you slept at all?"

"Have you ever felt too tired to sleep?"

"It usually happens when I can't turn off my thoughts, when my mind is still racing." She moved over to sit on the bed next to him. She turned off his reading lamp. "I don't think all of this light is helping matters." She spoke quietly, in a tone he found soothing. She put her hand on his shoulder. "You know, when I did those therapy sessions,"

"With Olivet?"

"Right, " she said ruefully, "I forgot you'd been down that road lately. Did she have you do that exercise where you picture yourself in your favorite place,"

Right here, right now, thought Goren.

"Eames, you don't have to…"

"Let's just give it a try." Goren shut his eyes. He could feel Alex's hand on his back, gently rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades. He just concentrated on that. He wasn't sure where, in the last 24 hours, he had become Fortune's favorite son, but he made a decision to not question things, for once.

Eames was operating on instinct now. She wasn't sure what had made her think she could or should approach her partner so intimately, but she finally knew that it was exactly what she wanted to do. She didn't know where all of this might go, but she trusted Bobby, so it really didn't matter. She continued rubbing his back until he was asleep. She walked over to the other half of the bed and lay down. She reached up and stroked his hair. "You took care of me last night, Bobby. I'm glad I got to take care of you." The day caught up with her eventually, and she drifted off herself.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When Goren opened his eyes, he noticed that it was lighter than it usually was when he woke up. He turned over and saw Eames, still asleep next to him. Remembering those last moments before he had fallen asleep the night before, he had a moment of certainty, the way he did on a case when the culprit's motivation became clear in his mind. This is how things should be. They should be able to support each other, the way they always had, really.

This certainty was immediately followed by a huge dose of doubt. What exactly could he give Eames, anyway? A decent life, with his Dickensian relatives in tow? Maybe this was how things should be, but he didn't see how they could be. Yet, as Eames opened her eyes and smiled at him, it was clear that they had somehow grown closer, in a way that they probably couldn't undo.

"Thanks," he said. "For last night."

"Just returning the favor. It's already 7:30. Can we take your car in?" Goren made coffee, while Eames showered. As he handed her a cup on his way to the shower, Eames was again struck by their easy domesticity. She didn't know how he felt about last night, beyond his immediate gratitude. Today, thought Alexandra Eames, who paid her bills the day they arrived and had color-coded reminders of family birthdays in Microsoft Outlook, today I will go with it, whatever it is.

When they arrived at 1PP, a beaming Josh Simmons greeted them.

"I've gone completely over Carl Roth's records. Nothing remarkable until a month ago, when he took 20,000 out of his savings account. His spending, though, doesn't seem to have changed. I can't figure out where it went."

"That's interesting, Josh. Our investigation has taken a sort of turn. We have another person involved – Rebecca Stone. Her financial reousrces might be quite involved. She also works in finance. We don't know so much about that world, so we'll be counting on you." Josh's eyes widened.

"I'll get right on it, Detective." As he scampered off to the conference room , where several fileboxes awaited him, Eames felt a pang that they couldn't give him the accountant's equivalent of a Scooby Snack.

Ross came over to Eames' desk.

"What do you have?"

"Today we're going to talk to people at Rebecca's old firms. We have leads on friends and family."

"Am I the only who's disturbed about how little attention the murder victim himself is getting?"

"There just isn't much there, Captain. He had few friends, worked hard, and looked after his mom. Not much in his financials, except this mysterious withdrawal. Ballistics came back on the gun, 9 mil., not in the database – surprise, surprise."

"We also still don't know whether Rebecca is a victim, a perp, or a witness. She's the key to this, Captain," Goren stated firmly.

"She'd better be."

Walking into the Hastings Hedge Fund was like stepping back in time. Dark, carved wood paneling and prints of the Old Masters adorned the walls. Eames and Goren were all the more surprised by the youth of the person who greeted them. Haley Milton couldn't have been much more than 25.

"You're the Head Analyst?" said Eames, in disbelief.

"As of a few months ago. You said this is about Rebecca? Has something happened? Are she and Cal alright? "

"Cal? You mean Carl?" asked Eames.

"Cal as in Calvert Hastings. This is his fund. He's the CEO and managing partner and Rebecca's the CFO." Haley paused as Goren began rummaging through his portfolio. "We suspect they're also together, you know, although they haven't said anything explicitly. They've both been on vacation the last 6 weeks. When Rebecca called in and said they were both going out of town for a couple of months, we kind of assumed they were together."

"Isn't it kind of unusual for your two, you know, top dogs to go running off for two months?" asked Goren

"Well, yes. Cal had been working so hard though, and this fund was his baby. Every day, he'd come in and say 'The sky's the limit!' He managed all of the investment decisions himself, well, he and Rebecca. We'd give him input, but he really handled the portfolio himself." Haley paused to take a folder from a young man with peach fuzz. "I think he really got the portfolio the way he wanted it a couple of months ago. Rebecca calls in to monitor it every couple of weeks. We are just sending statements to clients, who seem happy."

"You're doing well? The rest of the market isn't." Haley smiled

"We're a hedge fund, Detective."

"That's like a private investment club, isn't it." Eames smiled as Goren went into his "Clueless Cop" mode.

"Exactly. Because we're private we can invest more widely in more diversified assets. We can take advantage of opportunities that public funds can't," said Haley, with the satisfied certainty unique to those in their twenties.

"Without all of those pesky regulations," interjected Eames.

"We take greater risks, but we also earn greater returns."

Eames called in a subpoena for Rebecca's computer. Goren decided to step out of earshot. When she returned, he pulled the Lexis-Nexus articles about Rebecca out of his portfolio. Above each line item about Rebecca was another one, indicating that Calvert Hastings had been named to a higher position at the same firm.

"I thought that name was familiar. He was her mentor," he said thoughtfully.

"So her rabbi brings her here, with this staff that's barely shaving? By the way, uniforms went by our address of record for Calvert Hastings. Not there, and doorman can't remember having seen him in the last month."

Their next stop was Rebecca's, and Cal's, previous employer. Parker Braithwaite was a modestly sized, but very old, investment banking house. Despite the firm's age, their offices were modern and well-lit. Ross Lathrop, one of the managing partners, met them.

"So you're looking for Rebecca? She hasn't worked here in eight months. Is everything alright? Have you spoken to Cal?"

"Not yet, " said Eames. "How long had she worked here?"

"She and Cal came over six years ago. Thought we would have them forever, but that was before the stroke."

"Mr. Hastings had a stroke?"

"Just under a year ago. He made a pretty complete recovery within a couple of months, but it made him…restless. He said he felt confined here, so when they left to start their own hedge fund, I wasn't surprised."

"How are they doing?"

"Word has it that they are doing fine. Of course, their client base is small, but Cal always preferred a more intimate setting. That's why we got them from Draper Brothers, which was too large for Cal's taste. "

No one at Parker Braithwaite had spoken to Rebecca, or Calvert Hastings, in months. Leaning against the counter at a corner deli, Eames sighed in frustration, as Goren took his pastrami on a Kaiser roll and her pasta salad with red peppers from the counterman. Her phone beeped – a text from Jeffries: Rebecca Stone's mother's address. Goren looked at the sky.

"Nice day for a drive to Connecticut."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Once she had guided them safely onto Highway 95, Eames stole a glance at Goren. He was peering through Rebecca's college yearbook intently.

"She had some friends who really liked her," he noted thoughtfully. "the kind that wouldn't lose touch."

"You figured out what she's missing yet?"

"No, but her mom will know."

The house in Darien was beautiful on the outside, a large neo-colonial with columns. Inside, it was tastefully furnished, but some signs of wear were beginning to show in the faded wallpaper and the teak furniture in need of polishing.

"I guess I should find a smaller place, " said Mrs. Stone. "What do they call it – downsizing? Rebecca doesn't come home much."

"You aren't close?" asked Goren.

"I like to think we were at one time. Of course, Rebecca was always closer to her father. After he passed away, she was just 10, and we made the best of it. It's just that over time, things, work, other people creep in, become more important and more time-consuming."

"People like Calvert Hastings?" Goren prodded gently. Mrs. Stone smiled tightly.

"Yes. I suppose it was inevitable. Cal was a link to her father."

"He and your husband were friends?"

"Well, not exactly friends, Detective. My husband and I were quite a bit older than Cal. Cal was sort of a protégé, or would have been. My husband was also in finance. He gave Cal internships and summer jobs during college. He got Cal his first job as an analyst after graduation. When my husband died, Cal was quite distraught. He remained in our lives, quietly, helping to manage the trusts my husband had left. When Rebecca was old enough, Cal began doing for her what Merrill had done for him. Rebecca seems to like the financial world, but I'm not sure that was the main reason she enjoyed working for Cal. He had stories of her father, and he could lead Rebecca into their world, in ways that I couldn't."

"When did you last hear from Rebecca?" asked Eames

"Last week, she called. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"We're not sure, Mrs. Stone. When was the last time you saw her?"

"I guess about 2 months ago. I met her at her apartment on the East Side, and we went to dinner."

"And Calvert?" asked Goren.

"Maybe 5 months ago. He had had some kind of medical episode last year. He seemed to be doing well, but almost too well. He had much more, well, enthusiasm for every thing."

"Did she ever mention a Carl Roth?"

"No, I don't think I recognize that name."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stone. If Rebecca tries to contact you , please have her call us or come in to our office," said Eames, handing the older woman a card.

As they made their way down the very lengthy driveway, Eames said, "You were right. The mom did know what she was missing." Goren nodded.

"But I think we might need to find Libby, and I think we are in her neck of the woods."

Goren had pored over Rebecca's yearbook, and "Libby" had written the message that was the most intimate, that featured the most inside jokes. He had found her in the field hockey team photo with Rebecca – Elizabeth Waterman. "But that won't be her name now, "said Goren decisively. After convincing Eames that he wouldn't break her new Blackberry phone, Goren had gotten the number of the Dartmouth registrar. "I'm calling to verify the degree of Elizabeth Waterman." The Registrar, accustomed to these sorts of calls, said that Elizabeth Waterman was indeed a graduate. "You know, I have two last names for her here. Is Waterman her married or maiden name? Oh, Wolcott is the married name? Thanks." Eames grinned at his subterfuge. Some days, this was the best part about being a cop.

The Blackberry further revealed that the Wolcotts lived in Greenwich, one well-manicured suburb over from Darien. Their house was similar to Mrs. Stone's, but the interior décor was light and airy, and the furniture was largely Shaker.

"Rebecca called here a couple of weeks ago. She sounded fine." Libby Wolcott was exactly as Goren expected her based on her yearbook inscription to Rebecca – extroverted, upbeat, and seemingly unburdened by any real worries. "I haven't seen her for a couple of months."

"Was that unusual?"

"Well, she doesn't get out here to 'the country' much. Seddy and I go into town for shows and things regularly, although we couldn't track her down last time we went in, for 'Grey Gardens', I think. Of course, she had a hard time last year, after Cal's illness. He bounced back quickly enough, given that it was a stroke, but he had changed. He was so much more, well, enthusiastic. Not just about starting their own firm. He went sky-diving. He always talked about sailing his boat around the world." She smiled. "It was hard not to be pulled along with him. Seddy even invested some money with him." Libby beamed at her husband, as if this accomplishment were equivalent to winning a Nobel Prize.

"Indeed I did." Sedgewick Wolcott was almost as upbeat as his wife. "You know I hadn't done much in the world of finance. The family has had the same little firm managing the money for ages."

"Naturally," said Eames.

"But Cal seemed to have some big ideas, and according to the statements I've been getting, they're paying off. Speaking of Cal, it's actually rather unusual that he hasn't called lately. Sailing season is, of course, underway, and by this time, we should have taken the boats out a couple of times."

"Did Rebecca like sailing?" asked Goren. Libby smiled

"I think so, but it wouldn't have mattered. Cal loved sailing, and that meant Rebecca loved it too."

"Were they together, or engaged?" Goren asked, innocently.

"They were definitely together, but as for engaged, I don't think so. I often wondered why she kept on with him, but their bond was so strong."

"Darling," Sedgewick interjected, "not everyone has our devotion to tradition."

"But Rebecca was serious, and I think she wanted something serious. She used to say that it came from growing up in a single parent household. She said that you have to grow up more quickly, ground yourself more firmly."

Eames stole a quick glance at Goren. He was lost in thought. She excused them from the Wolcotts and steered him toward the car. On their way back to the city, he was quiet. Eames felt the need to speak, so she filled the space.

"We have a dead man, his mysterious date who has disappeared, her real boyfriend who has also disappeared, and their firm, which they left in the hands of naïve teenagers." Goren shook himself, as if physically pulling himself out of his stupor.

"A firm run by a man who had undergone a personality change, who had become a risk taker. Yet somehow, all of those risks were paying off."

"Sounds like he read 'The Secret'."

It was after 6 and they still had to deal with Eames' car. When they returned their SUV to 1PP, Goren drove them back to his place, while Eames called the auto club to meet her there. Once they had jumped her car, she headed over to Lewis Auto Body for a new battery. As he watched her drive away, Goren laughed at the thought of his friend's reaction to Eames' pulling into his garage, like manna from heaven. Then he felt kind of a pang. Shaking his head, he headed back upstairs to his apartment


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Goren sat at his desk and stared at the computer. He had logged a lot of hours on this machine in the last year. He had researched experimental treatments for his mother, and then, when it became clear those were no longer an option, he had looked up palliative care. Throughout his suspension, he had spent each evening searching and emailing youth crisis centers, shelters, halfway houses, anyplace that he thought Donnie could have ended up. It had been fruitless, but each new center, whether in Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, or Massachusetts, had represented a new possibility, a new spark of hope. Having that task had probably kept him sane during that dark time.

Now, Goren felt a distinct lack of desire even to turn on his computer. He realized that this was the first evening in several days when he hadn't spent the night with Eames, in some way. He felt…bereft. He got up, got a light jacket, and walked out of his apartment. He had picked this part of Brooklyn because it was walkable, with residential streets punctuated by stores and small restaurants. He passed the deli where he frequently picked up take-out food after a long day. Eames liked their potato salad, said it reminded her of her mother's. He smiled as he thought of Alex, having picnics with her family, playing with her nieces and nephews. He shook his head. When had he become so sentimental? He knew the answer was last night, at around 2:00 a.m.

Eames pulled into her driveway at 8:45. This evening had gone more smoothly than she had dared to hope. Lewis had replaced the battery quickly, with only a small amount of very chaste flirtation. Most importantly, there hadn't been any complications with the car. You never realize how dependent you are on a car until the day it stops working. Eames picked up the bag containing her turkey sandwich. It would have gone better with some potato salad from the deli near Goren's place, but one couldn't have everything. That last phrase sounded like something that Sedgewick Wolcott would have said. Ironic, since he appeared to, indeed, have everything. She thought about the Rebecca Stone, dating a man significantly older, dealing with his health crisis, his moods, his interests. She seemed to almost lose herself in Calvert Hastings. Eames realized that she knew a thing or two about seeing a man through a crisis, but ultimately, until that last confrontation before Bobby came off of suspension, she had never felt that it was all about him. Except for that moment, Bobby usually saw her for who she was. Eames didn't feel lost.

The next morning, Goren walked into work, surprised to see Eames there before his own arrival.

"Did Lewis get everything squared away for you?"

"He sure did, and with a minimum of unseemly slobbering." Goren laughed at her rejoinder, but felt a pang of jealousy.

That morning was a lot of traditional police work, slogging through records. Goren spent the morning calling Calvert Hastings' friends and relatives. They all said that they weren't close, that they hadn't heard from him recently, and that they had invested money with him with excellent outcomes. Eames had been trapped in Conference 2 all morning with Josh, as he went through Rebecca's financials and the firm's. He looked up around noon to see Eames leaning back against one of the windows into the conference room. Her back pinned something to the window. Goren looked more closely. It was a sheet of paper on which she had written "HELP!". Goren chuckled and wandered into the room.

"You guys have been working pretty hard. Do you have something ?"

"Why yes, Detective Goren, several somethings," said Josh enthusiastically, gesticulating with his left hand so wildly that he knocked several file box tops across the room. Eames looked slightly shell-shocked, but she started in while she could get a word in edgewise.

"Josh found that Rebecca Stone has been accessing her bank accounts from ATM's, withdrawing the maximum every four days or so. He also noticed that she had been going to ATMs that were truly far apart – Grand Central, Queensboro Plaza, the Bronx Zoo."

"Nice catch, Josh," said Goren, enthusiastically. Josh beamed.

"I've pulled the LUDS from Mrs. Stone, the Wolcotts, and the firm. They each received a phone call from a pay phone near one of the ATM's, on the same day the ATM was used. The dates match roughly with when they said they heard from Rebecca. She seems to be radiating out from her sublet on the Lower East Side." Goren was officially impressed.

"She's moving around, like she doesn't want anyone to find her."

"But she has to know that law enforcement can get her bank records, so she's not running from us," noted Eames. At this point, Josh coughed, but not subtly. More as if he were losing a lung.

"You have something more, Josh?"

"It's their firm, Detective Goren," he began excitedly. "It's really pretty strange, I mean not the strangest thing I've ever seen, that would be the German druglord who sank every dime into alpaca farming, but pretty out there. Anyway, they have bought a lot of outlandish securities, at least that's what's on their SEC filings. Some of these were real turkeys. When you look at their portfolio, though, it's all pretty run of the mill. Now the SEC filings for the run of the mill stuff are there, but if you add the run of the mill stuff together with the turkeys, it adds up to more than their investors put in."

"So there's too much money?" asked Goren.

"Yeah, kind of the opposite of the problem that most of Wall Street is having. I can't figure out, though, where they put the weirder securities. It's like they turned lead into gold – turned the weird stuff into conventional stuff." Josh paused for a minute for the detectives to be dazzled by his use of metaphor.

"Wow, Josh, that's quite a revelation. I'm sure it's part of the motive for our case. Detective Eames and I are going to go get lunch, and discuss our next move. We'll keep you posted. " Eames and Goren backed slowly out of Conference 2 and headed straight for the elevators rather than pausing at their desks.

In line at the bodega, Goren turned to Eames.

"Staten Island. It's the one she hasn't done yet."

"The ferry terminal is perfect for disappearing into a crowd."

"What time are those ATM runs?"

"Between 5 and 8 p.m. She might be due for another today, or maybe tomorrow. Another stakeout?"

"I think it's our best shot."

Eames phone rang. She signaled Goren to order for her, and stepped out of line.

"Eames. Yeah, that's ours. You have got to be kidding me. Do you have any details? No, I get it. We'll keep you posted, and we'll be expecting to hear from you guys regularly. Okay. Thanks, Danko." She hung up and turned to Goren. "That was Jay Danko. He said that the ballistics on a bullet from one of his victims matched the bullet that killed Roth."

"Jay Danko? Isn't he with – "

"The Organized Crime Task Force."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

They went back to the station house to update Ross. When he heard about the organized crime angle, he threw up his hands.

"So is Rebecca Stone a promising lead, or a red herring?"

"Like we've said, Captain, we couldn't find anything suspicious in Roth's past, except for that one cash transaction. I don't know how we tie him to organized crime," said Eames, in her best "Voice of Reason" tone.

Ross nodded.

"Okay, go with your plan, but patience is wearing thin, Detectives, and it's not my patience you need to worry about."

Goren and Eames squared away some uniformed back up for that evening. There were just too many doors to cover. Then they went home to put on some clothes that were less likely to get them made.

Eames stared into the mirror. The blouse was a bit low cut, but with a light sweater over it, that would be less noticeable. She would need to wear her smaller backup piece, definitely. As she was about to leave her bedroom, she stopped and turned back to her dresser to apply some perfume. She tried not to dissect her motive for doing that as she headed out the door.

In his front hallway, Goren put his leather jacket on over his plain white buttoned down shirt. It could get chilly out on the water. The fact that he knew she liked this jacket was neither here nor there.

They had arranged to take separate ferries over there. Eames would take the 4:30 p.m., Goren the 5:10 p.m. Eames arrived at the ferry terminal in St. George on Staten Island at 4:55. She took up her spot at the snack bar, with its ATM, where she nursed a Diet Coke slowly. She saw Goren come off the ferry at 5:35. He stayed by the boarding area, reading a newspaper. They carefully checked their earpiece and microphone sets. Fortunately, in this day of cellphones and Bluetooth devices, they didn't need to carefully conceal anything. Ferries came and went. Eames scoured the crowd . A few people used the ATM, but none looked anything like the photos of Rebecca. Goren eyed the payphones. He called the young uniforms on the outer doors of the terminal. They reported nothing. Eames checked the ladies' room every half hour. This went on until 9:30. Goren signaled Eames. They told the uniforms to go home, and elected to take the ferry back.

They boarded separately. Once on the ferry, Goren found Eames on a secluded part of the deck. She was staring out at the Manhattan skyline, as it drew nearer. She turned to him.

"My parents used to take us on this ferry on summer evenings."

"My mom did once, too. She said that this was the best view in the world, and it was only 10 cents."

Eames smiled at the unexpected shared memory. They watched Manhattan loom in silence. Eames shivered.

"Are you cold?" asked Goren gently. Eames nodded. Goren stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Eames leaned back against him. Goren felt all of the tension of the previous four hours melt away. He felt as complete now as he had felt aimless the night before. Goren sniffed. "Is that lavender that you're wearing?" She nodded. "The aromatherapists believe that it provides relaxation."

"It's certainly working for me," Eames said contentedly. Goren tightened his arms around her.

"Me too," he whispered into her hair.

When they docked, he kept his arm around her until they got to her car. As she drove him home, she cleared her throat.

":Bobby, are we going to talk about this thing going on between us?" Goren looked up at her.

"I don't know, Eames. I don't know what to call it. In some ways it…it feels right somehow, like just an extension of our relationship. You're always there for me, and you still are now. But…it feels wrong in other ways. Like I'm stringing you along, because I can't offer you what you need."

"It feels right to me too, Bobby. What do you think I need that you can't give me?" Goren laughed.

"A stable guy, you know, one who does the right things, sends flowers at the right time, one who doesn't come with two tons of baggage, ready to drag you down."

"I wouldn't measure your baggage in tons, and you send flowers, in your own way."

"Eames – Alex, there's my nephew, my brother, and my mom – I mean, I know she's gone, but her actions, they've had repercussions for me, and they still are. I'm still trying to decide whether to compare my DNA to Brady's profile…"

"Bobby, all of that is hard, I know. I've had my pregnancy, Joe…but that's what we do, we help each other deal."

"But, Alex, you're doing all of the helping."

"If only you'd let me. Bobby, these last eight years have been weirder than anything I could have imagined, but they've also been richer. I also…I don't mind doing things for you. It's nice to have someone to do that for again. But I want all of this to mean something, Bobby. I want to feel like I'm going somewhere again."

"I don't know if you can 'go somewhere' with me, Eames."

"You're a grown-up, Bobby. You can go wherever you want." They sat in silence for a while. Eames pulled up to Goren's apartment building, and unfastened her seatbelt. She leaned over and kissed him gently. He started.

"I – "

"Just think about what I said, Bobby. I'll see you tomorrow. After all, we have to do all of this over again tomorrow night." He got out of the car, and she put her seatbelt back on again and pulled away. For the second time in 24 hours, Goren watched her drive off with an odd mixed feeling of forlorn hope.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Any awkwardness they felt the next morning was put aside by Goren and Eames' most important task of the morning: avoiding Ross. He was wound up pretty tightly over this case, and their empty hands from last night's stakeout weren't going to help matters. Goren felt sure that they were going to see Rebecca Stone this evening. Eames was less sure, but felt that this was really their best chance of smoking her out. Their only alternative was some kind of ruse, and Eames was not sanguine about getting the cooperation of any of Rebecca's friends or family. They just needed to keep Ross at bay until they could hand him something solid, hopefully their material witness.

Eames updated Ross from her Blackberry and after clocking in, she and Goren made a hasty escape to the One-Five, where Jay Danko and his task force were located. They wandered into offices that were remarkably like their own, with scuffed linoleum and dented desks, but which featured piles of high tech recording equipment, seemingly just scattered around. They found Jay Danko, just slightly overweight with shaggy brown hair, eating an apple and reading a two inch pile of what looked like transcripts. He started on seeing them.

"Relax, Jay," said Eames, "We're just escaping our squad room. We thought we'd look you up in person." Danko smiled.

"Getting heat, huh? I been in that fire. Well, Alex, sweetie, I got the same bupkes I had when I called you yesterday." He picked up a folder. "Here's the ballistics report. A nine mil, which you knew. No other crimes, that we know of, of course. It was pulled out of our victim, one Brent Steadman, CPA, found in an alley. We know he worked for a few bookies, so that's why we caught the case, but he's pretty low down on the food chain, so it could be unrelated. I'm looking over our last few days of transcripts of wire taps to see if one of our bigger players references a hit like this."

"Our guy was an archivist at the Metropolitan Museum," said Goren.

"A civilian. Well, that's a horse of a different color."

"He did have one suspicious withdrawal from his savings, 20,000."

"Nothin' else? It could be gambling, but it's a little weird for a guy to go from 0 to 20 large like that. Usually there are some more medium sized withdrawals, you know, as he starts getting sucked further in," Jay mused.

After explaining the Rebecca Stone angle, they left Jay with a copy of their top sheet on Carl Roth, a copy of Albert Gow's statement, and a photo that he could show to the bookies he was going to question that afternoon. As they walked out to the car, Eames asked,

"So Roth as a gambler? He didn't strike me that way, but sometimes it's hard to tell."

"Jay said he didn't fit the pattern, though," said Goren. "By the way, you know him?" Goren attempted to ask casually.

"When I was on Vice, he was our backup a lot of the time, since we ran a lot of operations in his precinct. He has a laid back style, but he's a pretty hard worker, which worked well for us. He was respectful of everyone, but his arrests were all by the book." Goren was satisfied by her matter of fact tone, and didn't inquire further.

After stopping at a sandwich shop, Goren and Eames went back to 1PP, and actually sought out Josh in his lair on the 5th floor. He was so thrilled by their unexpected presence that he knocked over a pile of volumes labeled "Principles of Amortization". He had had no luck tracing the missing cash inflow or the missing securities. He looked over Carl Roth's statements again, but other than that one withdrawal, everything else was completely pedestrian. Groceries, shoes (with tassels, thought Goren,), and subway cards.

Once again relying on Eames' Blackberry, they arranged for backup, and went home to repeat their operations of last night. Eames spent her first 15 minutes at the ferry terminal walking around, and then set herself up in the snack bar again. She ordered a pretzel. The minutes ticked by. She spotted Goren with his paper. They tested their earpieces and settled in. They didn't have long to wait. A little before 6, Eames spotted Rebecca getting off of the ferry.

"Sighted," she whispered. She went over to the ATM and place a hand on Rebecca's shoulder. She surreptitiously flashed her shield. "We've been looking to talk to you." Rebecca Stone saw Eames' badge and gasped.

"Please, no, they can't see me talking to you. They'll kill him!" There was panic in her eyes.

"Do you mean CH?" asked Eames quietly. Rebecca nodded. "Don't panic, Rebecca. You picked this place because you thought they WOULDN'T be watching it. They probably aren't, but we'll make this look casual and get you somewhere safe." Eames looked up. Goren was about 50 feet away. She smiled broadly and said in a loud voice, "Becky? I haven't seen you since college, how have you been?" Goren arrived. Eames looked at him pointedly. "Bob, honey, you remember Becky. She and I were in the chorus at Dartmouth." Goren chuckled. The terrifying nature of Eames' singing was widely known in Major Case.

"Why of course. Didn't you date my fraternity brother, Peter? He's the one who could belch the Canadian national anthem. You're looking lovely." Rebecca Stone looked confused, but she didn't resist as Goren and Eames steered her back over to the ferry boarding area. "You know, Alex and I are going to get some dinner in the city. Why don't you join us."

They boarded the next ferry with a shell-shocked Rebecca in tow. Alex made small talk while standing next to Rebecca on deck. Goren cased the boat, but really couldn't find anyone suspicious. They led her off of the ferry in lower Manhattan to Eames' car and headed for 1PP.

Goren leaned over the headrest to look at Rebecca.

"You know, Rebecca, we really want to know about Carl. It was unfortunate, what happened to him." Goren said gently. Rebecca looked despondent.

"There were two men," she whispered. "They came out of nowhere, but I think I know who they worked for. They wanted something from me, something I don't have. So they killed Carl, thinking I would give it to them." She began to sob, "I should have just made up some numbers, something, anything."

Eames wasn't sure whether Rebecca was telling the truth, but she felt it wasn't quite right to go into bad cop mode just yet.

"Sometimes it's not always obvious what the right thing to do is, in moments like these," she said. Rebecca nodded.

"But you got away," Goren prodded.

"Yes," she sniffled. "I elbowed the one who was holding me and I ran. When I was a couple of blocks away, I took off my shoes and ran some more. I couldn't go home, or to my…apartment, so I just got on the subway."

"Where have you been staying?"

"The YWCA, " she said, quietly. Then she was silent. Goren asked her a few more questions, but she said nothing more. As they pulled into the 1PP garage, Eames knew that they were in for a long evening. She had to hope that Bobby could work his magic. There was clearly a lot that Rebecca Stone wasn't revealing.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Goren and Eames set Rebecca up in an interview room and had their most baby-faced uniform ply her with donuts and Coca Cola. Ross came in, dressed casually. Good God, thought Eames, is he smiling?

"The elusive Ms. Stone?"

"Yeah, Captain, but she's spooked. She thinks her boyfriend is in some kind of danger," said Goren quickly. "We need to be careful."

"Well after what happened to her last date, I guess she would be scared. Anything to do with our organized crime angle? Okay, take the time you need, Detective, but I suggest you get in there, before she decides that she needs a lawyer."

Goren and Eames looked at each other. Eames remained in the observation room with the Captain, while Goren went into the interview room. He was all smiles, and he opened his portfolio and raised a pen expectantly.

"Ms. Stone, we're worried about Cal too. I know you think you are protecting him, but you'll stand a much better chance of protecting him if you let us help you. We have a lot of resources." Rebecca looked at him silently. "I know you're probably extra worried about Cal, because he's been sick, hasn't he?" Rebecca nodded. "You know being sick can change people, make them behave out of character, do or say things they don't mean."

"He just…changed," Rebecca sobbed. "He became so enthusiastic, but so heedless, so unrealistic."

"But that wasn't like him, was it?" Goren interjected. "He was good at what he did." Rebecca smiled.

"When I knew him, when I was young, he was so solid. I mean, he was always a little oblivious. He never remembered my birthday or knew what I liked to eat, but he was my entrance into this exciting world of deal-making, and stock trading. It was a chaotic world, but Cal was always so steady, his investments were like a clear path that he steered through the rocks for his clients. I loved that about him."

"But then he got sick."

"And afterward, he was someone different. He wanted to take more risks. He wanted us to open a hedge fund, just a small one, he said. A boutique firm. I wasn't sure, but I thought that it would be good for him to have something to look forward to, to sink his teeth into with enthusiasm, so I agreed. We signed up some friends, family members, and a few clients from our old firm. He started off on a program of real daredevil investments. You can do that with a hedge fund, because the regulations are so much looser. He programmed all of the portfolio allocation decisions himself. At first, he seemed to be making money. The clients were happy. Then I noticed that some bonds he had bought had tanked completely. I checked our portfolio, but the asset value hadn't dropped. That was impossible. We should have lost millions, but we didn't. It was then that I realized what Cal was doing. He was hiding the bad investments, first out of pocket, then with money from new clients."

"New clients' money used to pay old clients. That's a Ponzi scheme, isn't it?" said Goren.

"It is, and I should have stopped it right then. I just couldn't."

"You couldn't let go. You thought that the person he used to be was under the surface somewhere, and if you just went along, maybe things would get better." Goren was staring into space now as he spoke. Rebecca nodded

"These things, they usually end when the money runs out. Cal couldn't face that. So he borrowed from…the kind of people who don't report their loans to the SEC or the bank regulators. They were – I can't, I just can't!" She began sobbing again.

In the observation room, Ross looked over at Eames, but she had left and was heading into the interview room.

Eames quietly slid into a chair next to Goren. She handed Rebecca Stone a glass of water.

"You know, Ms. Stone, I think we both know what you are worried about. I have a friend on the Organized Crime Task Force. They have a lot of experience in that world. I think we could leverage some of that on Cal's behalf." Rebecca looked up at Eames with resignation. If they had already guessed, she might as well tell it all.

"The men that made the loan, I mean I was there, and they made it sound as if the money were all untraceable, so it must have some from some illegal activity."

"What I don't quite get, Ms. Stone, is that most people go to…the underworld to borrow 50,000 for a gambling debt. The kind of money you are talking about – tens, even hundreds, of millions – is beyond the reach of a guy on the corner," Goren noted, quizzically.

"The men, there were two of them. They were very well dressed, not just their style, but the designers. One, an American, had a scar like a question mark on his left cheek. The other one had some kind of European accent, Scandinavian or German. People called him Kurt."

Eames sucked in her breath. The scar was unmistakable. Arrigo Massucci. He was the nominal head of the family, as the youngest of the original brothers and the last of his generation. He didn't involve himself in the more colorful side of the family business much these days, not since a bout with prostate cancer. Eames had once heard a low level operative say "They don't bother the old man for less than an even 10 mil." If Arrigo was involved, the stakes were high.

"And now?" Goren prodded gently.

"Cal couldn't make his first payment to them. They made threats. Then they took Cal. He made up some story. He said that there was an account in the Caymans – he had one half of the number, and he told them I had the other half. Before he disappeared, he told me to run. As long as they thought he had half of the account number, they needed him, and would always need him until they caught me too. So I ran, and kept running. I was worried that since they were so good at moving money, they could trace my bank records, so I never used the same ATM twice."

"But then they found you," said Eames, quietly.

"I-I don't know how. I should never have gone to that benefit with Carl. He was just so nice. I met him in the hallway, and he helped me fix my lock. He said he often did things like that for his mother. When he asked me to the benefit, he seemed so hopeful that I couldn't say no."

"You've given us a lot to think about, Ms. Stone," said Eames, as she and Goren rose. "We're going to need you to sit with a sketch artist to in order to identify the men who killed Mr. Roth. Do you know where they have taken Cal, or have you heard from him at all since he disappeared?"

"No," sighed Rebcca.

Goren and Eames went out into the hall to a waiting Ross. Lisa, the sketch artist, passed them on the way into the interview room.

"Nice work, Detectives. Things are much clearer now, although I don't know how much closer we are to a case clearance. Eames, you're going to –"

"Call Jay Danko. Now. I mean, Arrigo Massucci, for God's sake." finished Eames. She stepped aside and opened her cell phone.

"The other guy," said Goren, "Kurt Jansen. He's originally from Denmark, naturalized US citizen in his 20's. You can't believe all of the rumors, but he's the bank for a lot of drug operations, stolen car rings. He even dabbles in smuggled cigarettes."

Eames got a hold of Jay Danko without much trouble. He had been about to call her. When he heard her news, he was like a kid with a new puppy.

"You've got a witness that can place Arrigo Massucci and Kurt Jansen in a room with an illegal securities deal and a kidnap victim, and she can identify accomplices who committed a murder? Alex, my Aunt Vera is going to make you and your partner a pile of pierogies – "

"I look forward to it. Listen Jay, we have a problem we need your help with. The woman's boyfriend."

"Crazy hedge fund guy? Jeez, we'll do our best, but you gotta prepare her, Alex. How long ago was he taken?"

"About six weeks ago."

"Okay, we're going to take a three pronged approach here. The reason I was going to call you is that I found a reference in last week's wire tap transcripts to the problem with your Roth guy. An operative talked about a problem with a girl, as in they missed the girl, and there was a complication, which I think was your Mr. Roth. We're going to look six weeks back for a reference to this hedge fund guy from those same people, you're going to send your girl over here tomorrow to look at mug shots of known associates, and we are going to shadow known operatives of Massucci Sr."

Eames hung up, confident that all that could be done was being done. She hoped it would be enough.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Eames drove them home again, after they had sent Rebecca along with the Protective Custody detail. At least Rebecca hadn't been living in luxury over at the YWCA, Eame thought ruefully. The city's motel wouldn't seem so terrible in comparison. It had only been 24 hours, but a lot had changed with respect to the case. Now Eames wanted to know whether anything had changed between them. Bobby had been very quiet since they had signed out of the squadroom.

"You know, Rebecca, " he said suddenly, "she saw Cal falling."

"And she tried to catch him."

"But she couldn't. She couldn't have dug him out of the hole. She must have known that. He put himself in there, or maybe fate did, by giving him that stroke. It's not something another person could have gotten him out of."

"Probably not, but like you said, people rationalize."

"He was her link to her dad, her past." Goren said, thoughtfully. "I wonder if she ever thought about having a future?"

"Like maybe with Carl Roth?"

"Well, a guy like him, you know. Someone who would have taken care of her for a change. But…maybe it would have been just as bad. Maybe she would have dragged a guy like Roth down, with all of her baggage. In fact she did; she got him killed." Goren concluded, ruefully.

This was a maudlin turn that Eames hadn't anticipated. As she pulled up to Goren's building, she didn't know what to expect. She couldn't kiss him again. She had essentially laid her cards on the table last night. The ball was in his court now.

"I guess we have a long day tomorrow," she said. He nodded. Then, Goren turned to her. He looked in her eyes intently. Then he kissed her. It was a much deeper kiss than they had shared the previous evening. When they pulled apart, Goren looked at her again, and then he pulled her into a fierce hug. He leaned down and whispered in her ear,

"Eames, I don't know what I have to offer you, but I don't want you to think you're anything less than the best person I know." He got out of the car and walked inside. Eames sat stunned for a moment, and then turned on her engine and headed toward Rockaway.

Goren watched her drive away from the hallway outside his apartment door. If he could let go of his past, maybe he could see his future, a future with Eames. But what if he just dragged her down?

When Goren walked in the next morning, he could barely look her in the eye. She, however, gave him a huge smile, and a ham and cheese croissant. It was as if she had made a decision or come to terms with something.

Their awkwardness began to dissipate, as things really started moving. Goren and Eames took Rebecca over to the One Five, where she identified two known members of Arrigo Massucci's personal crew. Danko dispatched units to tail them from their last known addresses. Rebecca Stone had retained counsel. Ross had been clear that they needed to report her actions and Hastings' to the SEC, but no one was in any rush. One never knew where there might be leaks. Late that afternoon a call came in from the One Five. There was a reference in the wire taps six weeks ago to "putting the stocks on ice until we hear from the girl." Danko's squad had reasoned that this might refer to Cal. The phone call in question had been from one of the operatives that Rebecca had identified to a known Massucci fixer. There was also a reference to "the warehouse", but in New York, that didn't narrow things down that much.

At 6:00 p.m., Goren got up from his desk.

"Look, Eames, this might break in the next few days. Maybe we ought to take an early night while we have it to take." Eames nodded, and then her phone rang. She put it on speaker.

"Alex, this is Jay. Look we've got a break. Our guys tailed one of Arrigo's boys to a warehouse in Red Hook. We think we need to go in while we still have an element of surprise. We think we need to go in tonight."

"Jay, we know you've been working on these guys for a long time, so we're just looking to be useful," said Goren, carefully.

"I appreciate that, Bobby, and I definitely want you guys there when this goes down. I gotta have someone get the hedge fund guy out, since I think we'll be occupied up front. I know you know the Task Force has to run this op, and believe me, that's the way you want it. I got feds breathing down my neck, which they do whenever we write paper on anyone, and you want me to run interference with them. I got them thinking I'm what Alex would call a worker bee, with no imagination. That works pretty well for me, since they don't ask more questions than necessary. I got a few tricks for making sure we get some credit before they take our suspects away to charge them with RICOH."

They elected not to call Rebecca until after the operation was over, and they had firm news. They alerted Ross, who manfully hid his disappointment that the Organized Crime Task Force was going to get the glory on this one. Armed with Kevlar vests, extra ammo, and pictures of Cal, they headed to the rendezvous point in Red Hook, near the loading docks.

Jay was there, looking frazzled.

"I asked for two SWAT units. They sent one. Okay, so necessity is the mother of invention. Goren, Eames, our infrared shows six people at the front of the warehouse, and one at the back. We think that's your guy. We are sending half a squad in the front, but most are going around the side entrance for a two pronged attack. We hope to surround and contain them up front while you go in at the back to get your guy. O'Flaherty and Decker are with you," Jay said, pointing to two men with mustaches and riot gear. "Don't worry about getting in. O'Flaherty is good about that kind of thing." Eames looked over at O'Flaherty, who was holding a pair of bolt cutters the size of her five year old nephew.

"In in ten," said the SWAT commander.

Goren looked at Eames, who was double checking her ammunition clip. She was always a bit more on edge right before an operation, and with reason. She usually ended up taking more shots than he did.

"Piece of cake," he said, smiling. She was grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood.

"German chocolate, which is what you are going to buy me when we come out of the other end of this thing."

The SWAT team took their positions. The commander shouted, "On my count…three, two, one. ALL IN, ALL IN!"

Goren and Eames, flanked by their Task Force auxiliaries, took off toward the back of the warehouse.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

O'Flaherty made it to the back door of the warehouse first, followed closely by Eames. They could hear firing in the distance. O'Flaherty clipped open the chains on the door, and then slapped the knob clean off. Goren reached into the hole where the knob had been, tripping the catch, and they were in. It was dimly lit in the warehouse, and Goren could see the outline of a table, and someone lying on it about 20 feet from their location. Their view of the front of the warehouse was mostly obscured by a line of pipes and a backhoe, but the firing grew louder and more insistent, as did the accompanying shouting.

O'Flaherty looked at Decker.

"That's semi-automatic fire. We didn't have this place listed as a known weapons cache."

Eames and Goren raced over to the table. Eames gasped. A man of about 50 lay on the table, his face badly swollen and covered with bruises. He was the right build and coloring to be Calvert Hastings, but his face…Eames snapped back to reality.

"Mr. Hastings, we're the police," she said. The man looked at her, blood trickling from his mouth.

"Rebecca? She –"

"She's fine," said Eames soothingly. "We're going to get you out of here."

Goren began unrolling a canvas tarp. O'Flaherty and Decker held the ends, as Goren gently eased Hastings onto the tarp. Just then, a barrage of fire began hitting the line of pipes separating them from the front of the building. Goren looked up and could see two men racing at them, weapons drawn. Eames was already returning fire.

"Go, get him out! We'll cover!" shouted Goren to the other two. O'Flaherty and Decker raced out with Calvert Hastings suspended between them.

Eames hit one of the gunmen in the shoulder, and he went down. The other was holed up behind the backhoe, pinned by Goren and Eames' fire. As Eames changed clips, the second gunman rose and fired a barrage. A bullet hit Eames in the head, and she went down.

The next three minutes seemed to take place in super slow motion. Goren moved toward Eames, who was still moving, but he could see that second gunman taking aim at her again. Goren felt strangely calm as he took aim and fired, hitting the man squarely in the chest. He could hear the firing distantly front of him grow louder, as if more people were moving in their direction. He scooped up Eames in his arms and ran from the warehouse.

When he got to the front of the warehouse behind the safe line that the SWAT teams had set up, he looked wildly around for emergency services. Now he began to panic. Alex was limp in his arms, and her head was bleeding profusely. After what seems an eternity of weaving in and out of police cars and equipment vans, he found the ambulance.

"Please," he shouted as he placed Eames in the back of the ambulance. "She's been hit!" The EMT's sprang into action, one man putting pressure on Eames head, and the other checking her vitals.

"Ma'am? Ma'am?" said the second EMT to Eames. There was no response. The first EMT bandaged Eames' head.

"The wound isn't too bad. It's not deep, but since she's not responsive, we'll need to transport her."

"I would hope so!" shouted Goren. He recollected himself. "I'm sorry. I just – Can I go with her?"

"Sure."

"And there was another guy. He was carried out on a tarp by two other officers. Did you treat him?"

"The older guy who had been beaten up? The first ambulance took him. I gotta tell you, I'm sorry, but he wasn't stable when they left." Goren nodded.

As they drove to the hospital, Goren held Eames' hand, staring at her intently. Her head did, indeed, look almost fine, with just a small bandage, but she was completely unconscious and unresponsive. Goren also looked fine, with a stoic expression, but inside, his mind was churning. Why hadn't he protected her, given her better cover? At least he'd gotten the shooter, before the guy could hurt her again, and he'd gotten her out. He hoped those actions would be enough.

When they arrived at the hospital, the EMT's handed Eames off to the ER doctors, and Goren was left alone in the ER waiting room, surrounded by four coughing people and a man with a homemade bandage over half of his face. He stepped outside into the cool night air, which helped to clear his head slightly. He called Ross, who said a couple of expletives and hung up. Goren guessed he would be seeing Ross soon. He didn't know whether to call Eames' parents. Mrs. Eames' health hadn't been good for some time. He was hesitant to call her without firm news. He resolved that if he didn't have some kind of news soon, he would call Alex's sister, and let her make the call about how much information to give their parents.

Ten minutes later, another ambulance pulled up. An injured SWAT member insisted on walking out of the ambulance and into the ER. A black and white pulled into the parking lot, and Jay Danko leapt out. Goren looked at him. Jay's hair was pointing in even more directions than usual. He had a bullethole with powder burns on the upper left part of his shirt.

"Jesus, Goren, they told me Eames was hit. How is she?"

"I don't know yet."

"What a nightmare. Six guys, but a cache of semi-automatics. Maybe next time they'll listen when I say two SWAT units. Two perps are gone, four injured and en route. It looks like two guys rushed your area, because we found one of the dead and one injured near the area where they were holding your guy. Any word on him?"

"No," said Goren distractedly, "but he looked pretty bad. Like internal injuries bad." It occurred to Goren that he hadn't called Rebecca.

"Listen, Goren," said Jay almost apologetically, "did you and Eames both fire?" Goren nodded. "Okay, then, you know I've gotta take your weapons. It'll just be a formality. None of the perps had holes in their backs, and we got a lot of the action on our infrared camera, so IAB can examine that tape." Goren silently handed his gun to Jay. "Goren, she's tough, and don't go blaming yourself. We were up against it in their, Real hand to hand combat. You got her out. I'll be back in a while, but I gotta check on my other guy." Jay was gone.

Goren called Rebecca, a short painful call. He thought he'd be seeing her soon too. He walked back inside to see if he could find anyone who could give him information on Eames. When he asked the triage nurse, she looked at him as if he were Oliver Twist asking for more gruel and pointedly reminded him that Eames had just gone in. He sat down to wait. That lasted about five minutes. He went outside and paced for a while. A security guard came out for a cigarette break. He took one look at Goren pacing around in his police jacket covering an obvious vest and handed him the packet of cigarettes.

"You look like you've had a more stressful evening than I have," said the man. Bobby took a cigarette and the man's lighter. As he let the smoke fill his mouth, he felt calmer. He stood there, silently watching the smoke dissipate into the air. He thanked the man and went back inside. He sat down again. Ten minutes later, a doctor in scrubs came out.

"Was someone asking about a Detective, er, Eames?" he said, checking his clipboard. Goren jumped up and approached the doctor. "Ms. Eames' problem is mostly head trauma, both from being hit by the bullet and from falling. We've done an MRI, and there doesn't appear to be much swelling of the brain, but she does have a concussion. She's talking now, but she's not making a great deal of sense. We'd like to keep her here for at least 12 hours to make sure she's back to normal, but we aren't really expecting any lasting damage."

Goren nearly collapsed with relief. She would live. She would be okay.

"Would you like to see her, Officer, er – "

"Goren. Yes, please."

"Alright then. We understand you police officers are like family to each other. Speaking of which, we would like some information about next of kin, just in case. Ms. Eames is behind Curtain 5. We'll be temporarily admitting her shortly." Goren prowled the room looking for Curtain # 5. When he finally found it, he pulled it back to reveal Eames and a nurse, who left as he entered. Eames looked so small on the bed, and she was moaning slightly. Goren reached over and took her hand. He leaned down.

"Alex, " he whispered, "I'm here."

"Bobby?, she said groggily, "Is this hospital?"

"Yeah. You're going to be fine."

"You got me out. I knew you would." She drifted off again. Goren stood there, still holding her hand.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Goren awoke with a start, and then wished that he hadn't moved his neck. After they had moved her to a room, he had fallen asleep in a chair next to Eames' bed. It was a good hospital, but they still hadn't sprung for anything better than plastic chairs. He looked at his watch. It was 7:00 a.m. He looked over at Eames. She was sleeping peacefully, a small white bandage covering her ricochet wound. When they had moved her at about 1:30 that morning, she had correctly identified the year and the president before drifting off again, so the doctors were reasonably confident about her condition.

Goren felt very strangely calm. He was reminded of how calm Eames had been that morning, and he too had come to a decision. Buoyed by what Jay had said, and what Alex had said, he had begun to realize that he really had been of some assistance to Eames in that warehouse. Somehow, he had helped her. He still had that nagging doubt that if he had been more of an expert shot, she might not have gotten shot to begin with, but this wasn't a case of his baggage dragging her down. She would be okay. Maybe he could take care of her. Maybe he didn't always have to be on the receiving end. When he had shot the man who was going to shoot her, he had been completely focused and in that moment. If he could try to achieve that focus again, he could concentrate on helping her, in whatever way she might need. In order to do that, he would let go of the past. He would still help Donny, even try to find him, and maybe he would even do something for Frank, but he would no longer think of them as something that he had to fix. Donny was a reasonably bright young man who would find his own path, and Frank had made his choices. From now on, Goren decided to look ahead.

Since Eames was still sleeping, he snuck out to the hospital gift shop to buy a couple of toothbrushes and a cup of coffee. As he walked back to Eames' room, he saw the hospital chaplain, a priest, leading a sobbing Rebecca to his office. Goren realized that this probably meant grim news. He walked down to the nurses' station and flashed his badge. Yes, he was told, Mr. Hastings had died. There had been too much internal bleeding. The surgeons had given up and had just made him comfortable for his last hours. Goren had known that Cal was injured badly, but he had hoped. Now, he could only hope that Rebecca could get some peace.

When he returned to Alex's room, she was still sleeping. As he sat down, she stirred slightly. She opened her eyes.

"Bobby?" He took her hand.

"I'm here," he said gently.

"What time is it?"

"About 8:00"

"In the morning?" Eames asked. She didn't want to let go of his hand, but she wanted to sit up. She searched around for the button that would elevate her. Pressing it, she reached up with the other hand to touch the back of her head. "Yikes, I've got a goose egg the size of a…well, a goose's egg." Goren smiled. "She gave him a defiant look. "You know, shot in the line of duty here, so forgive me if my metaphor skills are below par." Goren reached up and gently touched her face. "So what happened, Bobby? I remember we were covering O'Flaherty and Decker's escape, and we were pinned down, and something flew at my face. Then I was on the ground, and it really hurt, and there was still a lot of gunfire, but I couldn't really see anything. It all kind of ends there."

"O'Flaherty and Decker got Cal out, and he was brought here. Jay said they got all of the Massucci henchmen, but it was tougher than they anticipated."

"Anyone hurt?" Besides you, thought Goren.

"A SWAT guy had a superficial wound," Bobby laughed, "The nurses said he signed himself out against medical advice when he saw the IV needle."

"How did I get out?"

"I…uh…I carried you."

"How? We were pinned down," she noted

"I think I got that second guy, the one you didn't get, so we had a little window." Eames was silent for a moment.

"I thought it was something like that." She looked at him. "You know, Bobby, if someone else had been my partner, I think I'd be dead now." It was Bobby's turn to be silent.

They were interrupted by a hale and hearty doctor.

"Officer Eames! Or is it Detective? Anyway, I'm glad to see you so chipper." He glanced at her chart, as Eames wondered how he had mistaken his own chipperness for hers. He ran through a few standard neurological tests: follow my finger, when is your birthday, and Eames' favorite, please remember these three words.

"Do I move on to the bonus round now?"

"Officer Eames," he chuckled, "you are quite the caution. Alright, I've cleared you for a clear liquid breakfast. I want one more measure of intercranial pressure, but I think we will be letting you out early this afternoon. You'll want to take it easy. No work. Do you have someone who can stay with you." Eames hesitated. She could call her sister or her dad, but they had her nephew and her mother, respectively, to look after. She was surprised to hear Goren interject.

"Yes, she does," he said firmly.

"Alrighty then. If you don't hear from me, it's good news, so I'll send your discharge papers around noon." As he left Eames turned to Goren..

"Bobby, I can call my dad…"

"No," he said, surprised at his own vehemence. "I can stay with you for a while." Eames nodded. She could grow to like this arrangement.

When Alex's feast of jello and broth arrived, Goren decided to go home and get his car and a fresh shirt. He ran into Ross, who had come by the previous evening when Eames was out.

"I heard about Hastings," Ross began. "They tell me that his fate was sealed before you got there, Detective, so don't take any of this on yourselves." Goren nodded. "How is she?"

"Good. They're letting her go home today, but she's not cleared to work."

"Not a problem. I take it IAB has your guns?" Goren nodded again. "Then I can spare you, the both of you, for a few days. It will take them at least that long to iron out this…melee. I know neither of you will take them up on it, but I am duty-bound to remind you of the counseling that the department offers to officers involved in shootings." He turned and entered Eames' room.

Goren left the hospital to return to Brooklyn to get his car. Traffic was bad at that hour of the morning, and it took him some time to get back over the bridge. When he returned to Alex's room, Jay was there. Alex stared out the window, with a serious expression on her face.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

As Goren entered Alex's room, Jay was speaking to Alex intently.

"Look Alex, you know there was nothing you could have done. The doctors said he'd been beaten and left to bleed internally days before you got there." Alex nodded.

"Was Rebecca with him, at the end?" she asked, more tentatively than was usual for her.

"Yeah. She was, poor kid."

"What will happen to her?" Jay ran his hand through his hair.

"Well, there will be a lot of complications, but I think it will boil down to this. She could conceivably be charged as an accessory in some illegal bank transactions and securities trades. The feds will offer to make that go away if she testifies, but even if they don't charge her, they'll try to get her to testify, and in a case like this that means –"

"Witness protection," said Goren, calling the others' attention to his arrival.

"Exactly," said Jay, continuing. "Those four we brought in, at least two look ready to roll on the higher ups. Rebecca's testimony would seal the deal, since the thugs are technically co-conspirators. The feds really think they've got a chance at putting the old man away, and they are trying to sweet talk her. Hell, they're even kissing my ass! Now, of course, she could refuse to testify and take her chances with the charges. The feds will have a job proving that she knew what Hastings was doing. I mean, they could do it, but I'm not sure she's a big enough fish to be worth the manpower. But you know what, I only saw her briefly this morning, but she sounded like she wanted some revenge for her guy, you know. I know I would in her place." Eames nodded. "Alex, sweetie, I gotta go. I got meetings with IAB, the feds, Stone's defense attorney, and Aunt Vera, in that order. I'm glad to hear you're doing better." Jay rose to go.

"Thanks, Jay." Jay turned to Goren and offered his hand.

"Bobby, it's been good working with you. I see why Alex keeps you around. My boys say the both of you have balls of steel." Jay slouched out of the room. Eames gave Goren a hard look.

"So when were you going to tell me about Cal?" she asked pointedly. Goren froze where he stood by the door.

"I…uh…didn't think I should so soon. I was going to work up to it."

"Goren, am I the type of person who like to have people dance around the truth?"

He was back to "Goren", now. Uh oh.

"Uh…no. I – I'm sorry. I should have told you." She nodded. Goren was worried. He had thought he was on firm ground this morning, but now he wasn't so sure. But she wanted him to be up front. "And in the interest of full disclosure, there's something else I'd like to discuss. I want to spend a day or two at your place, while you recover. I mean, you still have a futon in your guest bedroom, right."

"I do," she said, pausing. Remembering her resolve of yesterday, and he resolution of several days ago, when she had realized that she trusted Bobby completely, she said "Alright."

Goren had not been expecting it to be this easy.

"Have the doctors officially released you yet."

"No, but it's only 11:30."

"It's okay. We don't have anywhere to be. Ross told you we're off 'til we get our guns back, right?"

"Right, although we're going to need to make statements to IAB."

"I made a preliminary one last night, when they were waiting to admit you." He smiled. "I have to admit, I milked the 'distraught over shot partner' angle to get them to let me just write it down." Alex feigned indignation.

"Using your poor injured partner as a ploy for sympathy, Goren. Not exactly the moral high road."

"Maybe, "he said shyly, "I can make it up to you."

A nurse breezed in, bearing a clipboard and several folders.

"Alright, Detective Eames," she said, "your test results look good, and Doctor Howe has signed your release order. I just need your signature on your discharge form and your insurance billing release." She handed Eames a clip board. Eames signed quickly, not really bothering to read the forms. The nurse smiled. "Now, Detective, I'm just going to review your discharge instructions. You have just a few stitches in your forehead, but they will need to be removed in eight days, and most people just make an appointment with their regular doctor. In the meantime, keep the wound dry, and change the bandage every other day. The swelling on the back of your head should go down by itself. If the swelling does not go down, if you feel dizzy or nauseous, or if the stitches look red and inflamed, please come back in." The nurse turned around to see Goren surreptitiously taking notes. She laughed. "I see you have yourself a studious one, Detective. They say the studious ones make the best husbands."

Goren waited in the hallway while Eames changed. The nurse returned with a wheelchair, and Goren went out to bring his car around. When he got back to the entrance, Eames was there, seated in the wheelchair, muttering something about "stupid formalities". Goren smiled. He opened the door for her, and resisted the temptation to help her in.

"Hey," she said as they pulled out of the parking lot, "did you reupholster the top?"

"Yeah. It was time. Lewis helped me, you know, when I was out." Eames ignored his allusion to his suspension.

"Looks good."

On the drive to Rockaway, Eames fell asleep with her head against the window. They arrived at Eames' house, and this time, he went to help her out of the car. He gently put his hand on her face.

"Alex, we're here." She awoke with a slight start, and then nodded, not objecting when he put his arm around her shoulders to brace her as she stood. As they walked up her steps, she said,

"Rebecca. She'll have to leave everyone behind, her whole life."

"Maybe," said Bobby thoughtfully. "But maybe it will be a new start for her. A chance to be free of her past, finally."

He opened her door, and they went inside.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Bobby helped Alex into her apartment. It was clear that she was still groggy, so he steered her down the hall into her bedroom. She nearly stopped him to tell him she could take it from here, but then she remembered her resolve to follow this wherever it led, and she let him pull back the covers of her bed and replace them over her when she collapsed onto it.

"I'm not sure why I'm so tired," she said, sleepily. Bobby sat on the bed beside her. He reached out and put a warm hand on the back of her head.

"Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?"

"No, tired," she murmured.

"It's probably your body's reaction to trauma, trying to make you rest so it can heal itself. That and the fact that the hospital is a crappy place to get rest. Just sleep. I – I'll be here when you wake up."

Eames felt herself drifting off, and she let herself go. Goren stayed next to her until he was sure she was asleep. Then he went out to the kitchen to examine her cupboards. Goren was rather curious about what Eames might have in her kitchen. She never talked about cooking or recipes, even when he did. She was in great shape, despite her sweet tooth. Somehow, she must eat healthily, but without preparing food from scratch. Whenever they went to lunch, she ordered a turkey sandwich with no mayo, and often eyed his red meat stacked sandwiches suspiciously, although she never said anything.

In the fridge, he found some sliced turkey, ground turkey, prepackaged salad, and the usual staples. The freezer held a stack of microwaveable meals, all involving chicken or vegetables.

The cupboards had the usual items, and he was happy to find some canned tomatoes. He could do a pasta with tomato sauce and turkey meatballs. Onions and the appropriate herbs were available. His eye was caught by a canister labeled "Flour". It looked like part of a set, no doubt a gift from Mrs. Eames when Alex had first moved out. Eames baking? Hmmm. He opened the canister. Skittles. The thrifty Eames had purchased the economy sized bag.

He started his tomato sauce, and then checked his messages. Something cryptic from Jay Danko about "a little item that will save your captain a whole bottle of Maalox." M.E. Rodgers, confirming that Hastings had been a lost cause long before they found him. Alex's sister. That one he returned immediately. Alex had left a vague message on her sister's machine that morning. Maureen hadn't been fooled by "had a little accident, but I'm okay." Goren pondered what to tell Maureen, and he went with "hit her head during a serious bust, but the doctors say she'll be fine. No, there's no need for you to come out. I'll make sure she gets dinner." He got away with it. Maureen hung up without hearing the words "grazed by a bullet", and she didn't broach the subject of "What are you doing in my sister's house?" As he put his cellphone down, he was unsure which of those subjects would be more terrifying to Mr. and Mrs. Eames. He was sure, however, of his actions. He had resolved to take care of Alex, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

A knock at the door revealed a sprightly woman of about 70 in a floral blouse and polyester pantsuit. She introduced herself as Vera Danko Polanchuk, and she handed Bobby a plate of pierogies that she had made and frozen.

"I see you've started dinner. How nice, a man who cooks. Now I suppose the young lady is asleep? Well, good, that's the best thing for her. I just have a minute, since it's my week to do the altar flowers." After making him write down detailed instructions for reheating the pierogies, and eliciting a promise that he would go to Mass that week, she swept out again. Bobby felt slightly overwhelmed, the way he had when Jay had given them the detailed plan for yesterday's operation.

Had it only been yesterday? He shook his head. Heading to the refrigerator, he began to roll out the meatballs. He had just put them in the pan, when Alex sleepily walked into the kitchen. Goren turned and put his arm around her.

"Are you feeling better?" he said, rubbing her back. Alex leaned against him and nodded.

"You're cooking dinner?"

"Just pasta and meatballs."

"I didn't know that I had food that could be made into pasta and meatballs."

"Your sister called me."

"She called you?"

"She didn't buy your John Wayne act, so she left a message on my phone asking for the straight dope."

"You didn't tell her anything?"

"I think she needed more details. I went with you hit your head during a big bust, but you are going to be fine. I think I forestalled any visits."

Alex suddenly felt overwhelmed. She had been used to being completely self-sufficient for so long, and she liked it, but then there were times like these. She had always known that she could count on her family if something happened, but she hated asking them, since they had so many responsibilities to their own immediate families. She had always worried about being a burden. Now, somebody was bringing her home, tucking her in, cooking, and, above and beyond the call of duty, running interference with her family. Nobody had had her back like this since Joe had died. She buried her face in his chest and put her arms around him.

"Thanks," she managed to say. Goren returned her embrace. They stood there for a few minutes. Eames noticed that Goren removed one arm from around her to stir the meatballs. She laughed.

"You're quite the multi-tasker."

"Aunt Vera came by."

"She's quite a pistol, isn't she."

"Jay comes by his skills honestly," laughed Goren. "There are pierogies in the freezer, and I'm expected at St. Matthew's on Sunday." Alex laughed again. She picked up Aunt Vera's instructions.

"Wow," she said, "My first car had a less detailed manual." While Goren busied himself with dinner. Eames checked her email.

"Bobby! There's an email from Ross. He got a phone call from the Mayor's Emergency Services Liaison thanking him for Major Case's participation in the most recent organized crime bust and congratulating him on closing the Roth case. The Liaison even called the Chief of Detectives and told him the same thing"

Bobby breathed a sigh of relief, and of disbelief.

"You know," said Alex, reading his mind, "the best I'd hoped for was a quiet closure of Roth's murder. The raid didn't save the hostage, and things were pretty hairy there."

"Yeah. With the feds taking the case, I figured they'd keep things under wraps, and we wouldn't get any press. I felt kind of bad for the Captain. He likes that sort of thing"

"A personal thank you from the Executive Office of the Mayor is better than good press."

Bobby stood in front of the stove, lost in thought. Eames looked up.

"Bobby?"

"That must be what that cryptic message from Jay was about. He said he was going to make things easier for Ross. I just – how did he do it?"

Eames typed furiously for a few minutes.

"Bobby. I've googled an article here that quotes the Special Assistant to the Mayor's Liaison for Emergency Services, a Miss Barbara Polanchuk."

"Aunt Vera's daughter?" they said simultaneously.

Dinner passed easily, companionably. Afterwards. Bobby sat on the sofa. Alex came and sat next to him. She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her. They decided to try a Turner Classic Movie, but by 9:30, they were both fading. Alex sleepily sat up and looked at Bobby.

"You didn't get much sleep last night, did you?" she said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. Bobby managed to hide his surprise.

"Well, not a lot," he said groggily. Alex stood up and took his hand.

"Come on, Bobby," she said, tugging at his had to lead him up off of the sofa and down the hall. Bobby started to go into the guest bedroom, but Eames held his hand. "It's okay, Bobby." He nodded and followed her into her bedroom. They stumbled under the covers, and Alex snuggled close to him. As he idly slid his arm around her, he mumbled,

"Jay. He and his family, his men, they really look out for each other."

"So do we, Bobby."

As he dropped off to sleep, Bobby Goren's last thought was that he could finally agree.

The End


End file.
